


So come with me, where dreams are born

by starzangelus



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starzangelus/pseuds/starzangelus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma can never quite remember. Set during the year in New York. Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So come with me, where dreams are born

**Author's Note:**

> It is currently not betaed. Please enjoy!

Henry is six when he loses his first tooth, a small token of his valiant pursuit across the monkey bars. Emma keeps it in a small pouch made of sheer red silk inside her jewelry box and adds more of his memories into it throughout the years.

She works as a bail bondsman ( _person_ ) and occasionally meets with a forensic anthropologist when her prey proves to be too elusive.

“Hmm,” the woman says, tapping her cigarette into an ashtray that resembles a bowl of fruit. _Bali_ , it reads in bright orange letters. She adjusts the magnification on her microscope and takes a long drag. “It’s him all right. I’ve seen fewer prints on a prostitute.”

Emma doesn’t laugh and sighs in exasperation. “But this doesn’t tell me anything.”

“No,” her friend replies and removes the clear strip of fingerprints from the stage and places them carefully inside an envelope. “But we know that your dear boy has definitely been inside the house in the last week. I’d say that is definitely better than what you had before.”

Emma sighs and places the envelope inside her leather jacket. “Thank you, Jean, I owe you one.”

“No sweat, Emma,” Jean says and snuffs her cigarette out. “You know you can come to me whenever you need anything,” she smiles and places a gentle hand on Emma’s shoulder.

A small grin tugs at her mouth and she nods her head in assent. As Jean turns away to gather her things, Emma sits back and relaxes. Jean never gives more than Emma can take and Emma is thankful for that. Finding intimacy with people, including friends, is something that Emma has never been good at. Henry is all that Emma needs and his hugs are more than enough. Emma stands and makes her way towards Jean’s front door when the woman’s voice stops her in her tracks.

“Oh by the way, how is the bean doing? He’ll be a teenager soon and then you’ll be bailing him out.”

They both laugh and Emma’s chest tightens, a gentle warmth gathering near her heart. “He’s doing well. He really likes it here.”

“So you’ve decided to finally settle, hmm?” Jean asks, lighting up another cigarette. “And in the big city. It’s a good place, Emma, for you and for Henry. You will always have a steady job and Henry will always have friends.”

“I guess,” Emma replies, an uneasiness creeping through her throat. She has known Jean for many years, since they had met when she lived in Boston, but she still struggles to open up to her fully.

“Hmm,” Jean says. “Well, it’s only been six months. I say give it another six and if you still don’t feel comfortable, then go where the winds take you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Emma says and this time genuinely smiles. She turns around to the door again when Jean calls out to her again.

“Oh, wait! I wanted to give you this.” Jean sets her cigarette down and begins rummaging through some drawers. “Aha!” she says and pulls out a slender blue book with gold binding and in large golden letters on the front: _My Baby Book._ Emma’s breath catches in her throat as Jean tries to place it in her hands.

“Jean, I can’t—“

“Oh, now shush, Emma! It’s a gift. And you know how rude it is to refuse gifts.”

But before Emma can get another word in, Jean swiftly opens the door and pushes her out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Emma!” She grins evilly and closes the door in Emma’s face.

Emma stands in the hallway, mouth open in disbelief, for several minutes before the buzz of her phone jolts her out of her reverie. It’s Henry; he’s on his way home and is (in his words) “dying of hunger.” She gazes once again to the book in her hand and sighs. She doesn’t know what bothers her more, the fact that Jean so casually pushes the boundaries that Emma has erected around herself or how she knew that Emma had never bothered with things like baby books. Emma thinks they’re grossly sentimental and pauses when she remembers the bag of baby teeth on her dresser.

After fighting for a cab on the busy streets of New York, managing to scrunch up random ingredients for dinner, and attempting (and failing miserably) to help Henry with his homework, she tucks him into bed and then retrieves the book from her bag. It’s not a very large book, with pages for the day of birth, major milestones of the first year, and then a page for every year after that until the child reaches adulthood. It isn’t considerably fancy, with words printed in a simple black font and place holders for photos.

Gingerly, Emma takes a black pen and begins filling in Henry’s information. When that is done, she grabs the photo albums buried in her closet and delicately places Henry’s pictures in their allotted spaces. It is when she reads the text printed above the spaces for mementos that she hesitates. There is a place for a lock of baby hair and she wonders why on Earth people would keep such a thing like hair. Emma can’t remember keeping any of Henry’s hair and so continues filling in what she can. When she makes it to the part where one writes in the date when the child loses his first tooth she smiles. She writes in the date and then approaches her dresser.

On it is an ornately carved, mahogany jewelry box that she knows is a gift but cannot remember from whom. It is only slightly larger than a food container and is still only filled with a few items: a few gold and silver rings, a few necklaces, a bracelet, and a string of pearls that came with the box. The pearls distract her for a moment and she rubs a thumb across its large pendant which is inlaid with more pearls and in the shape of what she always assumed was a buttercup. She doesn’t know why the necklace invokes a feeling of loss inside of her but she brushes it aside as an accompaniment to the feeling of desertion she has felt her entire life. Shaking her head, Emma grabs the silken pouch and opens it.

She gasps and slowly, like the rays of dawn, the room seems to spin and the feeling of loss intensifies. Inside the small bag is absolutely nothing. Emma turns it inside out, shaking it as if it had a hidden compartment somewhere, but nothing comes out. She remembers the day clearly, the screams and the blood, and the running, and how his arm lay at an awkward angle on the ground. Henry was six and somewhat smaller than the other boys, and still he refused to cry. She remembers cradling him in her arms like a baby, and his wide smile as he happily held up the tooth with his good hand, declaring proudly that that night he would have his first visit from the tooth fairy.

Emma shuts her eyes and remembers, grasping at the memories as they drift slowly away like smoke, tendrils circling her, mocking her in their haste. It’s the feeling again, that niggling feeling in her stomach that she gets when she knows when someone is lying. She must have put them somewhere else, that’s it. Maybe they were lost during one of their many moves from city to city. Maybe Henry found them and lost them. And suddenly she isn’t quite sure if she even put them in the pouch in the first place, but she remembers, and if they aren’t there then where would they be?

She looks back at the book and contemplates. Somewhere inside Emma realizes that the whole thing is silly and they are just _teeth_ but they are _Henry’s_ teeth and that makes them important. She gazes at his pictures and she feels the sting of tears in her eyes making the images blur. Looking back at the clock Emma notes that only a half hour has passed since she has begun her journey through the book. Casually, she flips through the pages and studies Henry’s face staring back at her. Henry as a newborn covered in patches of downy hair; Henry a few months old, gazing curiously at the camera; Henry sitting on his high chair; Henry walking across a patch of grass; Henry placing two fingers up, proudly displaying his age; Henry on his first day of school; Henry in a school play; Henry, Henry, Henry, only Henry…

She throws the book back on the bed and then grabs the photo albums, flipping the pages in a mad frenzy, hands shaking with uncontrolled adrenaline. Henry, always Henry, only Henry…. Henry is always by himself, never with her. Hastily, she shuts the album and gathers the rest, including the book and throws them in the farthest shelf in her closet.

She never fills in the rest of the book.

* * *

 

“Okay, mom, that’s not a cool answer at all. _The Princess Bride?_ I’ve never heard of it,” Henry says and settles more comfortably in the couch. He is nursing a large cup of hot cocoa and is in his pajamas. It is their weekly movie night and as usual, they argue over what to watch. An array of DVDs lay haphazardly across the coffee table.

“Well, you asked me what my favorite romantic fairy tale movie was,” Emma says and she, too, rearranges herself better on the sofa. They are both under a big, fluffy comforter and she scoots her feet closer to his to steal a bit of his warmth.

“But that’s not a fairy tale,” Henry points out.

“It’s based on a book, though.”

“But that doesn’t make it a fairy tale.”

“Well, excuse me for not knowing the guidelines for fairy tales,” she says, poking him gently in the ribs.

He tries very hard not to laugh and clears his throat. “Okay, I don’t know if there are rules for fairy tales but I _do_ know that what makes them fairy tales is that everyone knows about them and they’re old stories that were written a long time ago and stuff.”

“Hmm,” Emma says and takes a sip of her coffee. “I guess that’s true. But that doesn’t mean it _isn’t_ a fairy tale. It’s a story, and a lot of people like it, and in hundreds of years, people will read it and watch it just like _Sleeping Beauty_ and the other tales.”

“I suppose,” Henry finally concedes and he scrunches up his nose in that way that Emma finds absolutely adorable. “I guess it _could_ be a fairy tale,” he adds, and the look he gives her makes it seem as if the thought is absolutely painful.

Emma laughs and runs her hand through his unruly hair. “Mother knows best,” she teases in a sing-song voice and he sticks his tongue out at her in retaliation.

“So what are watching?” Henry asks after a few moments. He reaches over and picks up three films. “I either want to watch _Snow White_ , _Pinocchio,_ or _Peter Pan_?”

“Why those?” she asks, looking at the other movies. “I haven’t seen _Dumbo_ in forever.”

“I know but these are the top three,” he states emphatically.

Emma raises an eyebrow but decides not to question his logic. “You choose this time,” she says.

Henry nods and then walks to the DVD player where he carefully places in _Peter Pan_.

“Why that one?” Emma asks as he returns to his seat.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I actually had a dream about Peter Pan the other day. It was weird.” He frowns and says nothing after that.

“Okay,” Emma says and a chill runs up her spine and she tightens the comforter around her even further.

They don’t bother to skip to the main menu and watch the previews in silence. The iconic Disney castle logo begins to flash across the screen when Henry perks up again.

“Hey mom, what’s your favorite fairy tale?”

“I don’t really know,” she replies as the opening credits begin.

The music is loud and a chorus sings along as words display on a screen full of grey clouds against a dark night sky, stars twinkling in the distance. Her stomach twists and her heart gives a painful lurch as the music slows to an almost romantic melody and the accompanying words ring dully in her ears.

_The second star to the right shines in the night for you…_

_He may look like a boy, but he’s a bloody demon…_

The words leave her mind before she can comprehend what they mean. The silhouette of a ship is now on the screen and she’s hit with a sense of wrongness. The arrangement of the sails is different… the mast is wrong… the shape is completely different…

Emma shakes her head and the images of another ship—large and grand and imposing in the distance, sailing towards her, sailing towards salvation—disappear and…

 _Maybe I just needed reminding that I could_ …

The credits are rolling and Henry is stretching, arms over his head. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and then looks tiredly at his mother. “Did you fall asleep?”

Emma begins to shake her head and then rubs her eyes, the fog clearing away. “I think I did.”

Henry laughs and attempts to stifle a yawn. “Well, I’m going to bed,” he says and he leans towards Emma and kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, mom.”

“Goodnight, Henry,” she replies.

She doesn’t watch as Henry turns off the television and movie player and places their mugs in the kitchen. She doesn’t see when Henry quietly turns off the lights and leaves her in the quiet darkness. The moon is clearly visible from the window and she waits until her eyes become accustomed to the dark and her living room comes back into focus. It isn’t exquisitely furnished and there are enough decorations and potted plants to keep it from being completely spartan. It is a clear, quiet night (as quiet as it can get in a large city) and for a moment she wishes that the pollution could clear a path for the stars.

It’s past midnight when Emma retires to her room. In her dreams she is in the sky again, flying through the clouds, the moon close enough to touch, the stars twinkling with mirth. She feels the wind blowing through her hair, cool against her cheeks and the course is smooth like a dormant river. After hours (days?) the sky is alight again and she can see the port, the small town visible in the distance. They break through the barrier and she looks over to him and smiles, thankful that he was true to his word. They are about to land when she wakes and when she opens her eyes she doesn’t remember any of it.

* * *

 

“Thank you for doing this. Tyler is not very good at making friends and your son has been very helpful to him. You don’t know how much I appreciate this, Mrs. Swan,”

“Just call me Emma. I’m not married,” she says and nearly winces at the surprised look on the woman’s face.

“Oh my god! How rude of me to assume!”

“No, no,” Emma pleads, putting the cup of java on the table. “You didn’t know.” She attempts a placating smile but fears that it comes out more of a grimace.

The woman smiles back warmly. “Then please call me Anne,” she says. “Being formal makes me feel so old.”

Emma chuckles and looks over towards the booth in the far corner where Henry and Anne’s son, Tyler, are talking animatedly. They are in a small café near Central Park after spending hours at the Museum of Natural History. She was blurry on the details, Henry making a half-hearted attempt at explaining the reasons, but he and Tyler had a project and it was crucial for them to go to the museum for research. Emma didn’t know what kind of sixth grade project needed that much research but she had agreed to meet Tyler and his mother at noon on Saturday. The woman—Anne—seems nice, seemingly not deterred by Emma’s reluctance to speak or comment about every mundane remark made by the kids, and attempts to get her to speak.

“So tell me, Emma, how long have you been in New York?” Anne has a kind smile on her face with light brown eyes to accompany it.

“Um, about ten months,” Emma replies, quietly wishing she would stop asking so many questions.

“Oh. And where did you live before?”

“Baltimore.”

When she doesn’t elaborate further, the woman—Anne, her name is Anne—simply sips her own coffee quietly. They are seated at the counter waiting for their orders—bagel sandwiches with chips. It’s a quick, small meal that Emma hopes will be finished quickly so she can get the hell out of there and away from Anne and her questions.

“Is that where Henry’s father is?”

“What?” Emma asks before remembering their prior conversation. “I—no. No it’s not. Henry doesn’t have a father.”

The woman’s eyebrows rise in disbelief but Emma interrupts her before the apologies begin pouring out. “No, I mean, he isn’t here. I—uh, of course there was a father… once… but he’s not with us anymore. I—we, what I mean is that… Henry’s father is dead.” The lie comes out easily and for a moment Emma believes it herself.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Anne says, reaching over and squeezing Emma’s hand. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

 _It sure seems like you are,_ Emma almost says and tenses at the unfamiliar contact. “It’s fine,” she says instead and removes her hand from underneath Anne’s and runs it through her hair to make it seem nonchalant. “It was a long time ago. Caught me off guard is all.”

Anne seems to finally understand Emma’s aversion to small-talk and instead chatters on about Tyler and school and the coming holidays and Emma is thankful for small mercies. The café is not as crowded as she thought it would be and figures it is the unusually warmer weather that keeps the people out in the park rather than inside. The loud chime of the door catches her attention and she looks towards the front of the café.

He moves swiftly yet calmly, in a methodic but lumbering way. His strides are long and the black of his trench coat jumps out at her and grabs her, a furious burn seeping into her bones, and her gasp chokes in her throat. He is tall with dark hair, black trousers and shoes, and Emma can barely make out the metallic shine in his hand before she is on her feet and moving. She ignores Anne’s calls and is maneuvering through the tables with narrow-minded focus when she comes up behind him. She grabs his by his arm harshly, turning him in one rapid movement, and then he is bared before her, the itch to grasp him by his lapels intensifies, and she focuses on the dark stubble on his chin.

Slowly, as though afraid to break him by gaze alone, she allows her eyes to move up to his face…

_Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it…_

… And stares into confused green eyes.

She blinks.

“Miss, are you okay? Can I help you? Are you all right?”

The sincerity in his voice breaks Emma from the spell and she meekly let’s his arm go. “I—no. ” Her eyes stray from his concerned face down to his hand where he holds a stainless steel mug. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I thought you were someone else.”

The man attempts to ask more but she is already walking away, back to Henry who is real and has always been with her and she ignores his protests and mutters a quick apology to Tyler and then they are leaving the café in a daze back to her apartment where she can get away from the people and the questions and the whispers.

It is dark when they arrive home and Henry mumbles that he is going to do his homework and leaves Emma to muse in the kitchen. She is shaken and embarrassed that she accosted a complete stranger in public, shocked to the core because she has no idea why she did it or who she expected the stranger to be. She has the edge of the counter in a death grip, eyes squeezed in concentration as she scrambles through her memories. She can’t recall anyone in her life who even remotely resembles the man, for the man doesn’t match the hazy image in her mind either. What she does know, somehow in the depths of her soul, is that he dresses in black and he _stalks_ not walks and he _smirks_ not smiles and his eyes are…

 _No,_ he doesn’t exist, she thinks, and the face fades and she is back in her apartment, in her poorly-stocked kitchen, trying to remember someone she has never met.

That night she dreams she is in the jungle again and she is behind the woman with the pixie-cut this time and _he_ is behind her. They are almost there, she thinks, and she turns to him for confirmation because he is always there supporting her and believing in her and thinking of her. He tells her that they are on the right track and _Lead the way, Swan_ , and she smiles and he smiles back and there is that pleasant heat in her belly again and so she looks ahead so that he can’t see it because he always reads her like a book.

Later, she pulls him to her lips and when she breathes in his scent she can smell the sea and the stars. _Don’t forget me,_ she whispers against his lips and he smiles again. _Never,_ he says back and then he is pulled away into the smoke and he fades as she falls.

Emma wakes up and there are tears in her eyes but she can’t remember why.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
